When I left Palestine and moved to the other side of the Mediterranean,
My grandmother gifted me a pocket-size Quran and told me to tuck it
under my pillow when I sleep under strange skies.
I stop by the park and I examine the mallow-like foliage,
My aunt shows up out of nowhere: “they’re not the same
Khubezi plants we picked in the Galilee hills last spring.”
I prepare café árabe, and the cardamom smell invades the kitchen:
Stir it slowly- el café nunca se toma con prisa,
only with Ayob’s patience.
I bought a jasmine shrub in a desperate
attempt to imitate the smell of Jerusalem.
they died- so my mother suggested baking bread instead.
Quixote’s plains unfold before me, as I arrive to Albacete,
As my dad’s distant uncle fought with the international brigades
And was buried there.
Another violent confrontation, more martyrs,
Young, beautiful faces wake me up at night
Demanding justice.
“You look like Lila Downs” and I’m flattered,
Brown skin and an inherent tendency to resist.
from Oaxaca till Nazaret, there’s a trail of butterflies that weaves the clouds.
La tierra de las naranjas felices أرض البرتقال السعيد
I name the city of Valencia
And announce it a home
For now.